


stuck fixated on one star

by dreadedlaramie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, Dream Sex, M/M, Xeno, how many teeth is too many?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 07:42:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4697873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadedlaramie/pseuds/dreadedlaramie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he's awake all he can see and hear is Jimmy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stuck fixated on one star

**Author's Note:**

> @ potential future employers, yes i do take requests xoxo

In his dreams, Dean sees Castiel as he imagines he is, not filtered through a vessel but in all glory, all eyes and brilliant light and shifting form; in his dreams, Dean hears Castiel's true voice, meaning ringing clear beneath piercing tones, the beauty of Enochian falling into place in his mind. When he is awake, all he can see and hear is Jimmy.

He feels a want he can't express or explain— words were never his strong suit, especially when it came to girly shit like feelings. He's much better at touch, when words fail him, but he realises quickly that that too would be insufficient. What he wants— what he lacks— he can only oversimplify, even to himself; what he wants is Castiel, but more than a want and more than Castiel, and he could talk for years or touch Jimmy until he shook and cried out, and he still wouldn't be able to get it exactly across. But in his dreams it nearly makes sense, lays out like a car's engine and Dean _gets_ it— but he always forgets the specifics by morning, and he's sure that what he wants is impossible anyway (unless he wants his ears and eyes bleeding and useless).

So he feels this emptiness in him, but like every other one he has, it gets easier to deal with after he gives up on it, so he does.

———

Dean kisses Castiel for the first time and that night he comes to Dean in a dream. It's hard to tell at first that it is real and not just a figment; when Dean dreams, which is rare, he only dreams about Castiel (or Hell)— he's a familiar sight. But he arrives as Jimmy and doesn't shed his skin and that's how Dean knows it's somehow really him. Jimmy blurs at the edges in this not-quite reality but remains intact, solid. Dean is glad to see him, is always glad to see him, but there's a trace of disappointment hidden behind it. He can't explain it and he needs to, needs to explain how he wants so badly that he would tear Jimmy open with his hands to get to Castiel.

Castiel frowns, tilts his head as if he's listening for something. After a moment, he says, "Oh. I had assumed this is how you would rather have me. Apologies."

Dean stammers a denial, that this is fine, and he knows he's weak for lying but he also knows that he's _broken_ for wanting. If Castiel didn't have that eerie ability to guess at what he wants, Dean would never admit it. (And he won't even say anything about how forward he is being, because if Dean does, Castiel will leave, and misunderstand, and then this will never happen. Dean is a man of many wants.)

But Castiel knows, because he always knows, and the meatsuit that is Jimmy Novak begins to fall away in pieces. Skin disintegrates like it's being eaten by acid, bones crack and are cast away, muscles unknitting before Dean's eyes. He shines out of his melting vessel, a blinding light that Dean instictively looks away from, before he recalls that here he can look, here and here alone he can see Castiel as he truly is.

Castiel unfolds and unfolds and Dean stares in awe as his wings unfurl, the largest pair of them so wide they feel as though they reach the very edges of his subconscious. Even the smallest pair is large enough that he would have to work to touch both wingtips at once, and he thinks about reaching wide and nestling his fingers among oil-slick feathers and all-seeing eyes and his breath goes shallow.

Castiel— the real Castiel, the Castiel undiluted by a vessel— is vast and incomprehensible and all eyes and mouths. Billions of eyes and millions of mouths, designed to see and to report and to obey. The four eyes of Castiel's central face meet Dean's gaze and he looks almost uncertain or worried, as if, having seen him bared open like this, Dean would find him not enough, or too much, or would change his mind about everything. But Dean is a raw and desperate hunger when he looks at Castiel, with his three faces and six arms and his eyes and eyes and eyes. He is the most beautiful thing Dean has ever seen.

Castiel is smaller suddenly but no less glorious, and Dean is confused by the change at first, until Castiel pushes Dean against a wall with his blurred-edges body and catches his lip between the sharp little teeth of one of the mouths on his face. Every inch of bare skin Castiel is touching burns like dry ice and live wires, and Dean wants more and more and more. He fumbles his way out of his shirts and tries to pull Castiel closer— he would pull Castiel entirely within him, if he could, wishes he could feel him in his veins and bones. His skin begins to blister under the blue-white cold heat and he does not flinch or pull back. Castiel digs his nails and claws and talons into the flesh of Dean's back, freezing cold slipping between muscle fibers. A mouth bites at his hip, another at the edge of his ribs, yet another at his shoulder, and fiery tongues lave at the pinprick wounds left behind. Dean gasps and it catches in the back of his throat, becomes a small and desperate thing of a noise. Castiel is a satisfied rumble of thunder Dean can feel in his bones.

But he pulls back, just a little but enough that Dean mourns the absence, and there's a piercing bright sharpness of sound, and at its center Dean feels a question— is this, is _he_ what Dean wants still (or does he want Castiel to fold in on himself and become Jimmy again or to leave entirely or just to stop). Dean screams a yes in his head— he wants him like his body wants to breathe— then says yes aloud and his voice is weak with desperation.

Castiel flickers like a guttering flame, and millions of mouths smile, millions of sharp little teeth on display, and Dean lets out a shaky breath. He thinks fleetingly "be unafraid"— and he is not afraid. He knows he should be terrified, should have been from the very beginning, should never have wanted or asked for this— but instead he is hard and breathless. He knows he's broken and wrong for wanting this, and that makes him want it more and more.

Castiel returns to him and kisses him deeply. Dean's lips crack and bleed and an impossibly long tongue is exploring every inch of his mouth. Castiel tilts Dean's head back and Dean can feel the unique smooth of scales and the ghost of claws on his scalp and he shivers. Castiel pulls away from the kiss and bites at Dean's neck and at his throat and there's a wet warmth discernible under the burn of his mouths and Dean dimly realises he's bleeding. Castiel's eyes blink against Dean's skin, this tiny flutter of sensation under a freezing electric heat, and he arches into them, arches into all of Castiel's mouths, clutches at him like he's drowning. He pushes his hips against Castiel's thigh and he thinks he sees a few mouths smirk minutely but his eyes are half-shut and it doesn't matter anyway. Talons sink into Dean where Castiel grabs his hips and Dean twitches forward and groans. Even this much is almost too much, but Castiel pushes a hand between them and scratches down Dean's chest (and the sheer normalcy of it is jarring) and slips it under his waistband. His fingers feel like they go on forever as they skate along skin, and it feels like he's everywhere and every nerve that Dean has sparks to life. He's a panting wreck already, all naked trembling skin and groans and pleas, and he feels Castiel smile against the bites on his neck and throat and chest and stomach and _everywhere_. He wraps his wings around, the light touch of feathers a shocking contrast to the harder and sharper ones elsewhere. Dean feels like he's been swallowed alive and he loves it, trapped there between Castiel and his wings, and he reaches out to touch them, to run over the thousands of fluttering eyes and the smooth feathers.

Castiel is everywhere is all around him and he snakes his fingers around Dean's cock and when Dean tries to gasp he whimpers instead, and god Castiel's skin against his _hurts_ and he wants to pull away but wants too to push into that pain and his hips stutter against Castiel's hand. Then Castiel is guiding him and Dean doesn't quite understand until a burning tongue wraps between Castiel's fingers around him and then he's inside one of those million mouths that gape like eternity. He wouldn't have ever expected they would feel so _good_ , wet and warm and tight and an overwhelming counterpoint to the bright electric burning of Castiel's tongue, and if he weren't held still (claws rest gently on his stomach with the obvious force of a threat behind them), he would fuck into that mouth like it was the last thing he'd ever do, and _god_.

Then Castiel is back to scraping teeth against Dean's blistered and now bleeding skin, scratching lines down his back, mouthing at his neck and throat and collarbones. He's moving his hips slowly, too slowly, and Dean is pressing as hard as he dares against the claws on his stomach to try and set a less agonizing pace. Castiel holds him back with a little more force, drawing five tiny points of blood— though Dean knows Castiel could destroy him easily, the amount of power contained within him; he remembers how much stronger he is than Dean even trapped within Jimmy and it sends a shiver through him. Castiel slips a hand down and pushes inside Dean with one finger and then, too quickly, two, entering impossibly easy and pressing just right again and again and again as they move.

Dean's entire body is trembling and his breath is shakier than it's ever been. Castiel adds a third finger and Dean all but stops breathing; a blazing cold tongue joins his fingers and he might shake apart entirely. It's so much to process, too too much and just not _quite_ enough and he's one long groan as Castiel works, digging teeth just barely in and pumping his fingers and teasing his tongues over skin (everywhere god it feels like he's everywhere). Then he speeds up the movement of his hips, now as punishingly fast as he was agonizingly slow before, and Dean is sure he's going to fall apart. (And he does)

Dean feels angelic when he comes, or how he imagines it is to be an angel, infinite and certain and complete. Nearly every one of Castiel's eyes is trained on his face, taking in the line of his throat and the way his lips part and the uncharacteristic calm of him.

———

What little there is left of Dean's sleep is dreamless and calm, and when he wakes he remembers only like a fever-dream— though he is surprised to see the uninjured skin of his chest, and, later, when he sees Castiel he feels whole in a way he never has before.


End file.
